Dead Frog

 I sometimes wonder how far one can stretch before the self starts to fray. Life asks us to accept, to accommodate, to soften our edges, and I try. I bend, I adjust, I merge. Yet in this slow blending, there is a danger that creeps unnoticed, like water heating so gently that the frog inside does not realize the risk.

At first, it feels natural, comforting even, to flow with others, to let their rhythms shape my own. But gradually, I notice fragments of myself slipping away, pieces that once defined my thoughts, my choices, my quiet certainties. The very warmth meant to ease me begins to press, to obscure, to dissolve the lines I once knew.

There is no sudden breaking point. There is no alarm to signal that the self is eroding. It is subtle, cumulative, a gradual shift from being present in my own life to simply existing within someone else’s. And I am left questioning: when does acceptance become surrender? At what moment does empathy turn into self-effacement?

Perhaps the answer lies in awareness. Noticing the rise in temperature, sensing the creeping pull, and recognizing when it is time to step out. Growth requires heat, but it also requires boundaries. Without them, even the gentlest warmth can consume.

We are told to adapt, to compromise, to harmonize. And we do. But true balance comes from knowing where to stand, when to resist, and how to remain ourselves, even when the water feels just a little too warm.